Lisa said, pulling her car up alongside the pay phone and climbing out. “Scoot over.” Francesca shook her head. “Francesca, come on. You need to be able to drive. What, are you going to ride a bicycle to your show in New Haven?” “I’m not going to go to my show in New Haven.” She crossed her arms. “It’s very easy.” Lisa tapped on the window and motioned, once again, for Francesca to shift over into the driver’s seat. She opened the door and took from Francesca the two large coffees, assumed custody of the grease-stained bag of oversized blueberry muffins. “Move over,” she said, calmly. Francesca obeyed, then sat stiff in the driver’s seat, waiting for further instruction. She put her hands on the wheel and felt the old car rattle under her fingers. “Don’t make me do this,” she said. “You love when I make you do things.”
